His hand touched hers; she wound her fingers around it and smiled. “I’m well, I feel no effects.”
His eyes and touch moved to her throat, where he gently probed that flesh. “A chafe, I believe, no more. ‘Twas poppy seed that drugged you. I had Lottie comb the kitchen and cellar, for I feared the drug upon you as much as the deed that—near came to fruition.”
“Mathilda is …”
“Dead, aye, gone to peace, poor woman.”
“And Clinton?”
“He aches, as is natural.” He fell silent for a moment, then closed his eyes tightly and opened them again. “She was my aunt, you know. Here, as long as I remember. Always a part of my life. And none of us knew, we never imagined …”
“I’m sorry, Warwick.”
He sighed and said nothing, then looked at her once again. “It was easier, this, than had it been Justin, or Clinton. Easier to find madness the culprit than avarice. And, then again, ‘tis easier to have it known and ended.”
“Have you—made your peace with Justin?”
He nodded, idly taking her fingers, playing gently and absently with his own. “Aye, that I have. ‘Twas not so hard, for he understood that I lived with a madness of my own, that madness being fear. He did not know till we spoke tonight that you had once been attacked in the chapel before, cast into the crypt. And Clinton … Clinton knew nothing. You see, when I first claimed that Genevieve had been murdered, no one believed me. They thought I had gone into a deep pit of grief and was lashing out blindly. Clinton felt guilty that he had not recognized this madness in his mother; he felt he should have known. Justin and I have tried hard to reassure him that none of us knew what nightmares haunted her and twisted her mind.”
Ondine lowered her lashes, watching the long brown fingers move on hers. She felt like crying; she must not. He spoke with such weariness, he appeared so very exhausted and haggard, such a toll taken from him. When had he slept last? Certainly not long or well on their journey home. He had been stiff and distant, but always near her, always on guard. He certainly had not slept on their last night in the cottage. That night! That night she must remember now! His cold brutality; his words, daggers in themselves! His arrogance, his determination to dominate all with absolute and ruthless control. Warwick Chatham, master of his realm, of his life, of all that came beneath him.
This she must remember, for she had to leave.
“Warwick, what now? What of Mathilda and Clinton? Suicide, the Church claims, is the greatest sin, yet I cannot believe that God will not take pity on her wretched soul—”
“Nor can I,” Warwick assured her flatly. “My grandfather gave her life; she will lie in Chatham ground. And suicide … I say that it cannot be called so, for it was an illness as sure as the plague that killed Mathilda, and Masses will be said for her soul. Have no fear on that account.”
She plucked at the sheet, nodding, glad. Had Warwick discovered that murder had been cold-blooded for gain, she felt sure the killer would have received no mercy. Yet in this she was not surprised, for she thought him honorable in such things, and was both glad and proud that all the Chatham men knew when and how to bind together in support of one another, the legitimate heirs and bastard all the same.
“Clinton was most distressed. He felt he handed you over, straight into the arms of death. He did not know.”
“He mustn’t feel that. He had really meant to—to shield me from you.”
“Aye!” Warwick said, his tone lowering to that dangerous one she knew so well. “And what were you doing, wandering about? How did you get past Jake? He swears you did not go by the door.”
She hesitated, then decided there would be no harm in answering him. It was best that he know about the corridor, the spiral stairs and the door. She would need that escape route no longer; once he slept tonight—which he must, for he was so very weary—she would leave with all silence through the door.
“There is a panel in my chamber.”
He scowled. “I’ve searched that place—”
” ‘Tis behind the latrine,” she told him softly.
He swore beneath his breath, thoroughly self-disgusted. “Tomorrow it will be opened! Ah, this place! We hid so many Royalists and priests! But the time is over now for the refuge of fugitives; I’ll have no more secrets in it.”
She smiled absently, for that would be none of her concern. She started to rise, saying, “I must see Clinton. I want to tell him that I am sorry, that—”
“Nay, not now. You’ll have the morning.”
The morning … so he did, indeed, intend to see her gone by afternoon. What had she imagined? Ah, but he was tender tonight, and so very warm, when she had known such coldness from him! She wanted his touch so desperately; some fresh memory of all that had been beautiful between them to take with her into the horrible emptiness of the future! She wanted no more words between them; no more thoughts of the mourning that must engulf Chatham.
She wanted one last glimpse of magic, be it illusion, be it a dream. She hoped to forget the world for just a few hours …
He touched her forehead, smoothing back a lock of her hair. He pressed his lips against her forehead, and they were hot and fervent and tender. Then he backed away from her, smiling ruefully.
“There’s much to be said; much to be planned. But no more tonight. I shudder each time I think of how close it came …”
“You were there,” she whispered.
“Just barely,” he told her. “Jake thought of the chapel; some blessed sense of suspicion and recall came to him. Without Clinton and Justin, I’d never have broken the door. It was a close rescue, madam, frighteningly so. So now you will try your strength no more, but sleep, and I will pray that the nightmare leaves your mind and that you are truly well.”
“I am well!” she protested with a frown. He was standing, preparing to leave her to sleep—this last night.
She caught his hand, a fire of panic sparkling in her eyes, making them shimmer like a liquid sea in the soft glow of the blaze that made an intimate haven of the room. She came to her knees, holding his hand, halting his departure.
“Warwick, I—”
“No words tonight!” he commanded her. “You must lie back, sleep, recover!”
“There is naught to recover from!” she said swiftly, faltering, uncertain—frightened that he would reject even this overture from her. “Please,” she whispered, then hesitated, lashes sweeping over her cheeks once more. “I—” She paused, finding the courage to stare up at him. Then she thought of her own person, and an entry to the conversation she sought to find.
“How … did I come to be here—so?” She indicated her long white gown and the cleanliness of it all. And—God help her!— as intimate as they’d been, a blush suffused her cheeks and her voice was a bare, husky whisper. “Did you bathe and gown me so?”
“Aye, that I did, with Lottie’s help,” he told her.
He touched her cheek and spoke’ earnestly with a rueful smile, “Ah, lady! Brute that I have been, fear nothing from me this night! Even beasts have their limits! Ondine, this—”
She brought a finger quickly to his lips, casting him into a questing confusion. He grew silent, but hiked a brow to her, barely breathing.
“Milord, I want no words. Just as you say, morning comes, and matters might be settled then. But tonight…”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight I pray that you do not leave me.”
“I’ll not, lady, if that is what you require. I’ll sit by your side all night—”
“Oh!” she cried in frustration, staring at him with flaming eyes. “Surely, Lord of Chatham, you are the daftest among all beasts!”
A slow smile curled into his lips, and he watched her with vividly sparkling eyes.
“Lady, watch your words, that they say what you mean. It costs me harsh and rigid control when I must be near and keep from touch! My heart has been heavy and near shattered; such bliss as that of your arms is pure temp
tation. Yet, you have been sorely abused by relation to my name this night, and I would have you know only peace.”
She crawled from the bed and stood before him, desperate to make her wishes known, for never again would she place a palm against his most beloved cheek, or know the exquisite ecstasy of his love. Tender, savage, tempest, sweet; his passion was wondrous, and she yearned to know it, hungered deeply, this last night. Ah, she was aching, empty, quivering, touched by wildfire by having him this near, pondering what might come.
“Milord! The last that I seek at this moment is peace!”
Still he stared at her. She emitted a soft cry of aggravation and hated him briefly for forcing her to such a wanton perusal! But if needs must this night, she would pursue! For surely, surely, pray God, he could not refuse her!
She touched the gown where it lay on her shoulders, shook her body lightly, and it shimmied down from her. The gown wafted luxuriously along the length of her body and came to her feet like a mist of soft fog, leaving her naked before him, her body touched to richest flame by the fire’s glow, sleek and rich by that enhancing light; angelic and pure—and totally carnal.
Warwick inhaled sharply, stunned and rigid, instantly tense, and instantly aroused beyond all measure. He swallowed quickly, felt the speed of blood that raced and bubbled, of the pulse that beat from his groin and echoed throughout his body. And, oh, this! This most wondrous, most incredible love. For all that he had done to her, she could still come to him …
His magic sea-nymph, she was truly given life by her marriage to a mortal, standing before him like some Aphrodite, eternally glorious. Ah, she was the fire, she was the light, she was everything that guided him now! This love was pain, it was fear, it was all encompassing …
Who was she, this water nymph of his? Something ever so fine, commoner or countess, it was true, she was the greatest lady he had ever met; she was his beloved.
“Warwick!” she breathed at last, a cry, a desperate plea.
He reached for her hand. She gave it to him, and he rose, still then in the blue depths of her eyes, adrift—and completely aware of her and himself and the explosive power between them.
He came to her, touching her hair, then clutching her shoulders and pressing his lips ardently upon that bare flesh, where he held for the long heartbeat of an eternal moment. Then his lips grazed her ear, and his whisper came hoarse and ragged.
“Be sure, madam, that this is what you wish this hour, for if I stay longer here, I will not be able to leave.”
She slipped her arms around him and pressed close to his body. She stood on her toes and touched his lips with her own lightly, again and again, parting them, nipping at them, coming to them again, and finding a fiery mating with his tongue.
His arms embraced her in a crush. A glad and muffled cry tore from him, and he was indeed lost. Ah, all that she was! A cascade of sunlight and fire, wind and tide, sweeping through him, over him, within him. He started to speak; she stopped him with another kiss. “No words this night,” she whispered.
“No words …”
No truths would come between them; no harsh realities would dispel illusion. There would be moments when the wind beyond the walls rushed with the soaring flight of their longing, when the rain beat no harder than the pulse of their blood. The storm outside was a storm inside, beautiful and wild, impetuous and free. He held her breasts and gloried in their weight, kissing the fair peaks and savoring the taste. He carried her to the bed and laid her upon it, shedding his clothing; then he came to her again.
Every touch was a reverence, each stroke an adoration; each kiss a cherishing anew.
Ah, sea nymph, witch, most magical creature! She touched him, again and again. She loved him sweet, loved him with most exquisite abandon. She moved, her body liquid over his. She gave to him as never before.
And he gave to her, all of him. He filled her, again and again, held her, shivering, trembling, quaking, shuddering … again and again, until she sighed against him and buried her head into the dampness of his chest, exhausted and spent.
“Ondine …” They were there; words he didn’t know how to say; eloquence had deserted him. They were simple words: I love you. They hovered on his lips, and they must be spoken.
But once more she touched her finger to his lips, shaking her head strenuously. “No words!” she pleaded, almost sobbing. “No words tonight, I beg you!”
He cradled her against his chest. They were both aglow with satiation. His arm was strong around her, and exhaustion claimed him at last.
There was always tomorrow. Tonight … tonight excelled dreams and fantasies.
Tomorrow there would be time for words. And perhaps none would be more eloquent than their love this night.
He nodded and dared close his eyes, secure at long last that he could sleep without fear—for her.
She knew that he slept quickly; he had been so very drawn, so dearly in need of repose.
His breath became even; strain eased from his features, and for this rare moment he appeared very young, handsome and wonderfully tousled.
She remained beside him for at least an hour, watching him, taking all of him into her mind and heart and memory. The texture of his face, its strong and rugged lines, the full and sensual curve of his lip, the arch of his brow, the length of his nose. She dared even to run her fingers over his chest, to feel the muscle there, the dark tufts of hair.
She stayed and watched and felt her tears rise.
Then, at last, she rose, silent, broken.
She paused at his dresser, smiling slowly, bitterly. It was laden with gold coins, coins she knew he meant her to take to the Colonies.
And, after all, she forced herself to accept the bitter truth.
He was a master lover; a man of lusty appetite, and he’d never denied attraction to her. But attraction was easily discovered, easily had and lost—easily a delusion of love.
All bargains were fulfilled—and now she should be grateful for the proof that he intended still to ship her away; she needed the coin.
She treaded softly into her own chamber, most grateful for his absolute exhaustion, since she’d learned early how lightly he normally slept.
She dressed in her simplest gown, a plain velvet in soft dove gray, in warm hose, and her best boots.
All had been bought by his coin, yet the Duchess of Rochester could pay him back easily and well. She found her warmest cloak, dull brown wool with a heavy cowl that gave the appearance of a pilgrim’s garb. She dared not take more clothing, for she needed to travel light; speed would be of the essence.
At some time he would wake. Possibly he would give chase, for the simple reason of his arrogance—the lord of Chatham did not tolerate disobedience to his high command.
The lord of Chatham …
Time spun too quickly for her then, but after she had carefully dropped the coins into her pockets, she still could not leave, but watched him again, completely in love.
In love! Oh, it was weak, it was shattering! Honor and a daughter’s duty called. Her pride and the morals bred into her since birth forced her hand. But love, this treacherous, fickle thing, kept her here, craving the sight of him, her beast, her beautiful, beautiful, manly beast.
The sweet sound of a bird’s cry at long last startled her from tender hypnotism. Now it was all still beautiful, before morning’s light, and the truth of his feelings could tarnish memory or send her captive far away.
One last touch …
She kissed his forehead, willing back her tears. Then she fled, hand to her mouth to hold back a moan of anguish.
There was no Jake in the hallway—no loyal friend to guard the night—there was no more danger. She found her way along the hall and down the stairs, and out of the manor.
She did not dare look back, but raced to the stables. Quietly she whispered to the bay mare. With as little fuss and noise as possible she set bridle and saddle to the mare, praying that no young stable boy would awaken in confusi
on to accost her.
She mounted the mare and took her from the stable. And then, only then, did she turn back.
The rain had ceased; the wind had died. Chatham stood upon its mound in all pride and strength, for always it would brave the wind and the storms of the rugged north. Chatham, harsh and hard, it bred men as graceful as its lines, as strong as its stone, tender, brutal, fit as the manor to face the wind and storms.
Warwick! her heart cried.
She was no longer Countess of North Lambria, Lady Chatham, no longer Warwick’s gallows’ bride. From this moment she would again be the Duchess of Rochester, a power in her own right.
“Away now to home!” she told the horse. “My home,” she added softly. “My rights, my heritage.” She swirled the mare around and sent her galloping into the night.
It was strange then that she heard the wolves howl. There were plaintive cries, sharp cries. They were mates calling out to one another—males, she thought, with bittersweet amusement, creatures bound to claim and hunt their females, taken for life.
It did not occur to her then that a Chatham might be like the beast, the wolf, that prowled his forest, that he, too, would relentlessly pursue his mate, no matter how far she might wander. She was far too wretched to think much at all.
“Rochester!” she cried to the breeze.
Taunting her, it seemed to echo the name.
PART III
The Duchess of Rochester Full Circle
Chapter 22
Ondine managed to travel as far south as London with a group of holy sisters on pilgrimage. There she spent Warwick’s coin in good measure on a proper wardrobe in which to return home in splendor.
It was the twenty-first of October when Ondine at last came in her hired carriage down the cobblestoned drive that led to her home, Deauveau Place, as it was called, for the family name. It stood like a crystal palace, blanketed in new snow, the first snow of the season.
She pulled apart the drapery of her hired carriage’s window, clutching the new silver fox cloak she had purchased in London to her throat. Home …
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